Through The Wilderness
by Ashleigh.Rose.Turner
Summary: It's 2018 and the Turner's estranged granddaughter, Ashleigh, gets in touch with the now elderly Shelagh. Ashleigh learns about her family's history, but what she really wants to know is how to find her own vocational calling.
1. Chapter 1

Ashleigh unlocked the door to her apartment and slipped inside, quickly pulling the door closed behind her and sliding the dead bolt into place. She kicked off her boots and fumbled to turn on the light. She looked around the sparsely furnished apartment that didn't feel anything like home and rubbed her hands over her face. She was exhausted, and although felt she had no right to be quite so tired, she flopped down on her couch and closed her eyes.

Her thoughts began to whir around her brain, some of them slipping by too fast for her to even articulate what they were. The weariness that weighed her limbs deep into the soft couch and pulled her eyelids tightly closed couldn't touch her mind. Her temples throbbed and her heart ached with loneliness and a kind of homesickness for a home she wasn't sure she ever had.

She had been living in this apartment for seven months now. It was the fifth place she had lived in the two and a half years since she graduated from college. When she was offered a job that seemed to fit her education and background perfectly, she scarcely thought twice about moving to a small, depressed city. Her short stint of living at home with her father had gone poorly, leaving her to believe that being alone couldn't possibly be any worse. But now, her job felt less fulfilling every day, it left her feeling depleted and simultaneously wanting something more.

Opening her eyes, Ashleigh realized that she must have fallen asleep on the couch. She slid her feet down to the floor and stared at her socks. They were a soft yellow, hand knitted with tiny stitches wrapping around and around her toes. She furrowed her eyebrows and wiggled her toes thinking about the socks. Her grandmother had knitted them for her birthday this past winter and she couldn't remember if she had sent a thank you note.

Taking a few steps to her desk, Ashleigh pulled the chair back and slid open the desk's deep drawer. At the back was a stack of letters. She gently pulled out the most recent one, postmarked just a few days before her 24th birthday, and ran her fingers over the cursive that spelled out the return address. Her grandmother's cursive handwriting had always been a little difficult to read, but had more dramatically begun to falter in recent years. The loops of her letters shaking slightly, though her messages were as thoughtful and clear as ever.

"Mrs. Shelagh Turner," Ashleigh whispered, reading the first line of the return address aloud. It had been almost 10 years since the letters had read "Dr. and Mrs. Patrick Turner," when her grandfather was still alive.

Ashleigh tried to picture her grandparent's faces the last time she saw them, at her mother's funeral, but she could only envision the photographs. She had been five years old when her mother died, her mother's body wracked with what had begun as breast cancer. She remembered taking a pencil rubbing of her mother's name on the headstone "Angela Julienne Turner, beloved mother, wife, daughter," it read.

After the funeral, Ashleigh's father had moved the two of them back to the United States, closer to his own family. Though he had tried to be a good parent to Ashleigh, it had always been difficult. As a child she fantasized about her mother's family. London seemed like something of a fairy tale, but they never visited. Her grandparents wrote letters on her birthday and Christmas at least.

When Ashleigh's grandfather was still alive, the letters had come much more frequently. They wrote about their garden, Ashleigh's cousins, and sometimes even her mom. When Ashleigh was fifteen, she overheard her father on the phone with one of her uncles, the volume loud enough for her to eavesdrop, paused in the doorway to listen while his back was turned to her.

"Teddy, she isn't going, she's too young to fly to a foreign country alone," her father spat into the phone.

"I'll meet her at the airport! She won't spend a moment alone once she gets here. It would mean so much to mum if Ashleigh could be here," the kind, accented voice on the phone pleaded.

"Ashleigh wouldn't even know who you were to meet you. I'm sorry for your loss Teddy, but its not happening."

Ashleigh blinked, realizing a tear had fallen onto the envelope, smearing her own address. She didn't often write back to her grandmother. Short thank you notes for gifts and occasional photographs were all she could usually think to send to this woman she knew so little.

Her tears began to fall more rapidly, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto her lap. She could remember stories about her grandmother boldly following both her passion for midwifery and her love for Ashleigh's grandfather, all at a time in history when few women had careers, especially after they were married. Ashleigh began to sob, internally berating herself for not being able to find a vocation to feel passionately about when she had so many more options.

Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Ashleigh ran her thumb over the return address again, surprised to feel warmth and resolve settling deep in her belly. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled a blank sheet of paper from her printer and began to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Four days after she mailed the letter to her grandmother, Ashleigh still hadn't received a phone call. She was surprised by how much hope the idea of visiting London had given her, filling her imagination with days of tea and storytelling. She tried not to allow herself to believe that her grandmother's stories and wisdom might clear her own cynicism about life and love.

However, as each day passed without a response, doubt bad begun to seep into her thoughts. Was it too late to ask to visit? Had it been too long? Was her grandmother's heath too poor?

On the fifth day, Ashleigh answered her cell phone with a distracted "Hello?" expecting a call from work. A gentle Scottish voice answered, "Yes, may I speak to Ashleigh, please?"

"This is she," Ashleigh said abruptly.

"Oh, this is your grandmother, Shelagh," the gentle voice replied.

Not usually one for big displays of emotion, Ashleigh was shocked to find her eyes brimming over with tears. This time, however, they were happy tears because her grandmother's sweet voice left her feeling more at home than she had in years.

xxx

It wasn't particularly easy to get two weeks off from work, but Ashleigh's boss seemed compassionate when she explained that she planned to reconnect with her elderly grandmother. She neglected to explain that the trip felt more like a pilgrimage to discover what it was that was making her feel so unmoored. She needed advice and comfort from the strongest woman she knew, even though she felt like she was barely acquainted with her grandmother.

On the morning of her flight, she pulled the tear-stained envelope from her desk and tucked it inside her backpack, reasoning that she should have her grandmother's address just in case. The frayed opening gave her comfort each time she reached past it to grab her passport or stow her headphones.

Ashleigh's flights were long and delays put her in London hours after she was expected. It was close to midnight and her cell phone wasn't connected to international service. Collecting her bags, she didn't see anyone that looked like they could be her grandmother at the terminal. Thankful she had already done a currency exchange, she stepped out of the airport and into a cab.

"Poplar?" The cab driver asked after Ashleigh showed him the address.

"Yes, please," She answered, trying not to let uncertainty creep into her voice.

"My whole family's from Poplar, dad used to work at the docks before they closed them down. Lots of history there."

Ashleigh tried to smile at him, but it came out as more of a grimace. She wasn't sure if her stomach was tied in knots because of the airplane food or nerves about everything that could go wrong when she met her grandmother.

After paying the driver, Ashleigh slid her bags out of the cab and walked up to the older brick house numbered 104. The mailbox read "Turner," assuring her she had come to the right place, so she knocked softly on the front door. There were lights on inside, encouraging her to press her ear against the glass of the door. She could hear something that sounded like static, but wasn't quite the same as television or radio static.

Ashleigh knocked a little harder and still there was no answer. She tried the doorknob and to her surprise it was unlocked. The house smelled old but clean. She stepped into a spotless entry and pulled off her boots, setting her bags down by the door.

"Grandma?" she called, her voice cracking as she used the unfamiliar word. "Grandma?" she called more loudly, beginning to worry.

She padded into the house, once again wearing the soft yellow socks her grandmother had knitted for her, scanning her eyes over a neat, though outdated, kitchen. The refrigerator was plastered with pictures and cards, with Ashleigh's own letter pinned in the center by a large magnet.

She saw where the static was coming from – a record player had been left on long after the record had finished playing. When Ashleigh strode across to the living room area to turn off the record player, she finally saw her grandmother.

Shelagh Turner was a petite, 90 year old woman. She had become frail looking with age, her skin almost opaque on her hands, where she still wore her wedding and engagement rings, and around her closed eyes. She had many wrinkles, the deepest of which were the ones that creased when she smiled and laughed. Her white hair was streaked with grey and rolled into a twist at the back of her head, and her upswept glasses, though the style was terrifically outdated, lay on a book beside the arm of her recliner.

Alarmed, Ashleigh bounded the last steps to her grandmother, sliding to her knees beside the recliner and gathering one of the small hands into her own.

"Angela?" the older woman croaked, her pronunciation softly Scottish in its sleepy surprise, while her clear blue eyes squinted in the dim light.

"No, its Ashleigh," she replied with dismay, handing her grandmother the glasses and squeezing her hand.

"Oh, Ashleigh! I was so worried!"

Ashleigh could see her grandmother's eyes focus through her glasses, lighting up with a smile that accentuated the wrinkles around her eyes and dimpled her cheeks. Helping Shelagh stiffly to her feet for a proper hug, they made their way into the kitchen for a cup of tea.


	3. Chapter 3

After a big breakfast the next morning, Shelagh and Ashleigh sat together on the sofa, browsing old photo albums. When Nonnatus House closed, the sisters gave Shelagh many items of sentimental value that their vow of poverty prevented them from keeping. Shelagh pointed out each member of the extended family, her features filled with love. Ashleigh giggled at a photograph of her grandfather wearing shorts with knee socks during a camping trip and admired her mother, Angela, as a tiny child.

Their conversation came surprisingly easily after all the time and distance that had been between them. Ashleigh was starving for information about her family's history. She felt that if she could just immerse herself in the stories, she would begin to understand her roots and perhaps be able to use them as a foundation to guide further growth.

"What's this one?" Ashleigh asked, pulling an older album from the shelf. Before her grandmother could protest, it fell open to a photograph of a grinning, bespectacled nun and Ashleigh's uncle Timothy, as a young boy, winning a three-legged race. Ashleigh's grandfather appeared to be passing though the frame, cheering from the sidelines.

Ashleigh's breath caught in her throat when she realized her grandmother's face was the one framed by the crisp, white wimple in the photograph. She reached out and touched the page, wanting desperately to understand. Vaguely knowing her grandmother had once been a part of a religious order and seeing it in a photograph were two entirely different experiences.

"That was such a very long time ago," Shelagh said, her tone hushed.

"Did you think you would never fall in love," Ashleigh asked quietly.

"I had found a greater purpose, which strengthened my faith, and led me to more love than I could have ever imagined. Nonnatus House was full of love, as was our vocation. And though I questioned it, I never suffered from a loss of faith in God or in our work."

"But it was a different kind of love," Ashleigh stated, more than asked, her heart feeling the ache she could read on her grandmother's face.

"Yes," was Shelagh's simple answer.

"When did you know you loved him?" Ashleigh asked after several minutes of silence.

"I'm not sure," Shelagh answered, her eyes misty. "At first I didn't know what I was feeling. I thought it was just sympathy for a kind and lonely man. I couldn't bear to hear the nurses talk about the buttons coming off his clinical coat or to think he looked unprofessional.

"I didn't understand why I wanted to linger in his presence but I wanted so badly to be close to him.

"One morning after a particularly difficult birth, I found myself sharing a cigarette with him in the street. Perhaps it was the golden glow of the early morning sun, or the warmth of tiredness and relief after a successful delivery, but it felt like my very soul caught on fire when our hands brushed as I passed the cigarette back to him."

Shelagh's face became both wistful and conspiratorial as she leaned closer to Ashleigh. She pursed her lips and her cheeks reddened slightly as she whispered, "I could taste his lips on that cigarette. And I felt almost as though he had kissed me."

Ashleigh grinned at her grandmother, caught up in the unusual love story of these two incredible people she was lucky enough to call her grandparents. She reached out to turn the page in the album, hungry for more, but Shelagh gently stilled her eager hands.

"But it was this day," Shelagh said, almost more to the photograph than to Ashleigh, "that I knew he loved me."

Shelagh recounted to Ashleigh how she had fallen at the end of the three legged race pictured in the photograph, just after her and Timothy won. In the confusion, scraping her hand in the gravel and losing her glasses. Dr. Turner had been there to congratulate them, as he was supposed to be the one running the race with Timothy in the first place. Shelagh had rushed into the Parish Hall's kitchen to rinse out the wound on her hand, still giddy from all the excitement.

"I can still remember the way his hair would fall into his eyes," Shelagh smiled again, even as her own blue eyes brimmed with tears. "He was always in a mad rush to get one place or another and had such a tendency to let himself and Timothy be so disorganized."

After a pause, during which Ashleigh scarcely dared to breathe, willing her grandmother to go on, Shelagh continued, "He followed me into the kitchen and the world, which had been spinning so quickly just a moment before, stopped completely. I let him take my hand to examine it, but he slowly brought it to his lips and kissed it instead. And for a moment there was nothing standing between us."

Shelagh sobbed gently, the tears spilling onto her cheeks, and Ashleigh led her to the sofa.

"I'm sorry, Grandma. I never meant to pry so much," Ashleigh said as she gently touched her grandmother's back. "I was being selfish and didn't think about how much it might hurt you to look back on it all."

"No need to be sorry," Shelagh replied, "your grandfather was the most wonderful man."


End file.
